


Wishes and Dreams

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual, Fantasy Fulfillment, Gen, M/M, Roleplay, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4851008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's the thing: IMO phrases like "topping from the bottom" get muddled up when you get role play between two willing adults who are both in the know about what is going on, and are both working to play out a shared fantasy together. Given the nature of this fantasy, and the insanely complex layers of who's got power and who does not between Mycroft and Lestrade... I don't think dom or sub or top or bottom or any of that applies. They're both dominant. They're both submissive. They're both in different ways at different moments vulnerable and invulnerable, in charge and obedient. </p><p>Does Mycroft's fantasy suggest he wants to sub? But, then, at heart it's a fantasy about taking charge and asking for what he wants...quite powerfully. Does Lestrade seem to be willing to dominate? But it's not his fantasy, and he's largely reacting to his role in Mycroft's imagined scene. So--I have no idea what to tag this, beyond what I've done. More firm labels seem to me to be misleading.</p><p>What I hope is that you all find it warm, and sexy, and hot, and loving...and that you like our two boys enjoying each other in this little indulgence they share between them.</p><p>This lands among my more explicit pieces. Beware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishes and Dreams

It was late when Lestrade arrived at his flat, slipped the key in the lock, and came in. He didn’t bother flicking on the light—he knew his way around, and there had never been that much furniture in the place to avoid in any case.

Even so, he could see well enough—the light from the street flooded in, sweeping the little sitting room. It cast dramatic shadows on the walls, turning the chairs and sofa into nighttime monsters and the boxes piled into the corner into a dark fortress that could hide anything. It illuminated the neat pile of clothing on the carpet by the sofa—each piece folded and laid on top of the previous piece, shoes set neatly alongside. In the shadowed shelter of the sofa a darker shadow lay, covered and anonymous under a fringed cotton throw that would have been too small had the figure beneath not been curled, childlike, in a small huddle.

Lestrade shivered, feeling the hair on his arms rise. The excitement roused other things, too, stirring his cock and tightening his nipples.

“Mycroft?”

Eyes gleamed over the edge of the throw. “Yes.” The voice was a whisper, nervous and unsure.

Lestrade had known it might happen. He’d never really expected it, though. As the days left on his lease counted down he’d decided with a smile that it was closer to being one of Sherlock’s impossibilities, rather than an improbability. It wasn’t going to happen.

Now it had.

He stepped warily into the sitting room. He could hear his own breath—hear Mycroft’s breath. He stood over the sofa, looking down. His eyes had adjusted to the dark of the room, taking in all the shine there was. Mycroft’s face, like the moon, glowed—the curve of a cheek, the smoothness of his brow. His eyes were wide. His mouth a long, tender shadow, like the line of ink laid down by an illustrator with a talent for ink-and-brush pieces. The supple, elongated bow of his upper lip only served to draw attention to the full pout of his lower lip—trembling slightly. Lestrade leaned over, cradled one curved cheek in his palm.

“You’re shaking.”

A tight smile flicked and was gone. Mycroft gave a faint sniff of amusement, and nodded just a little—nodded into Lestrade’s hand, not away. “Yes.”

Lestrade knelt, then, knees landing beside the folded suit. He let his hand trace down Mycroft’s face, down the long line of his neck, easing beneath the cover of the blanket. Naked skin met him—a naked shoulder hunched under the weight of the cotton. It set something off in him—Mycroft’s nakedness. His own attire, fully dressed from a long day of work and a chilly trip back. The skirts of his overcoat fell around his legs, pooling behind his knees. It made a picture in his mind’s eye, a picture he had to complete in reality. He gripped the edge of the blanket and folded it back and back, until he could let it fall in folds behind the revealed curves of the other man’s body.

There—he could imagine it now, the picture they made. Him in his dark clothing, heavy, fully dressed; Mycroft gleaming in the faint blue light, tucked innocent and helpless and naked on the sofa. Mycroft could look so innocent, he thought. His face was always a boy’s face, no matter how far back his hairline receded or how long and beaky his nose got, or how the character and bone of his features aged. It was something in his eyes, perhaps, or in the curve of his cheeks or the comparative height of his jaw that rounded his face somewhat in spite of the strength of his chin. No matter—whatever it was, it always surprised Lestrade and brought out something both tender and demanding.

Silent, he tucked one hand under Mycroft’s head, letting the deep bowl of his palm cup the other man’s skull. His other hand slid, possessive and unafraid, over Mycroft’s body—shoulder, waist, hip, thigh, then down to find the warm, hard wand already full in the humid nest of his groin.

He’d done it—Mycroft had done it. Lestrade hadn’t thought he would—but here he was.

oOo

They’d come together without much fanfare—two sensible adult men, controlled, wise, and, in all truth, unwilling to risk themselves in histrionics. They’d had enough of Sherlock’s flounces and hand-wringing to know how little it really appealed to them, after all. Surely there were those who’d find the beautiful younger man romantic, but any allure had long since died for Sherlock’s elders. Instead they had been “sense” to Sherlock’s “sensibility.”

They had, after long years circling and considering, found each other. Lestrade had not thought too much of it. He’d had a marriage to occupy him for years, and though he was more than just bi-curious, he leaned enough to heterosexual first instincts to have not found the years before their union empty. He hadn’t spent the time in “pinin’ for the fjords,” like the dead parrot in the old Monty Python sketch. To him it had developed slowly, unexpectedly, but naturally enough. He hadn’t questioned it.

He had admitted to the occasional fantasy. He’d confessed his attraction to Mycroft—there from the start, though not a matter of painful obsession. But, yes—he wasn’t immune all those years. Just otherwise occupied. He was not, at heart, the sort of man who tests the limits of his faithfulness against local temptations. He’d had a marriage, and a ring, and a wife, and he hadn’t indulged. Then he’d had a divorce, and a few years finding a new balance in himself. And then, slowly, things had shifted, and he’d found himself in a sensible, slow samba with Mycroft Holmes…and he’d been happy with that.

It had not occurred to him to ask what the same years had been like for Mycroft. Nor had Mycroft thought to say, until the final choice to move in together. Mycroft’s was by far the better flat…and Lestrade’s lease was coming due.

“A shame,” Mycroft had said, wry and puckish and amused, but just a bit wistful. “I used to have the most shocking fantasies about that flat.”

“Huh? Mike, it’s a flat. Not a sexy flat, either. Best I could afford after the divorce and that ruckus with Sherlock and Moriarty. Not much up from college-boy digs.”

“Ah—but they were your digs,” Mycroft murmured. “And you didn’t know I was alive.”

Lestrade scoffed. “I always knew you were alive, you berk. Just didn’t know you were interested.”

“Nor that you were,” Mycroft responded, tart and too aware. “All those years, and you without a clue. I didn’t know whether to be grateful you didn’t see it—or desperate.”

Lestrade studied his partner. “Don’t tell me you were doing the anguished, unrequited love thing.”

Mycroft considered, then said, with Mycroftian precision, “Not exactly. The first years you were married, after all. One can’t survive falling madly in love with married straights.” He pouted and scowled. “The odds for a gay man are simply dreadful—one in ten by the most generous estimates, and only then do you start the sorting process. You can’t risk getting tangled up in the nine straights or you’d break your heart daily.”

Lestrade snorted with laughter. “Poor you. But you were smart and didn’t fall in love with me all those years. What happened to change that?”

“Oh—you mentioned going out with a man after the divorce.” He blushed. “I did a bit of background checking, then. It’s embarrassing—my instinct had always suggested you might be amenable—but I’d assumed it was me projecting. Imagine my delight.” The tone was dry and detached. The faint blush suggested otherwise. “I was all aflutter when I realized I might be able to add you to my ‘to do’ list.”

Something in the tone of his voice said more. Lestrade had studied him. “Didn’t show it, sunshine. Not by a flicker. Not for ages.”

“Ah, but I wanted to.”

“So how come I was the one who invited you over to mine for beer and take-away?”

“Because I’m a sensible man,” Mycroft said, primly—then, more hesitantly, “And my fantasies were so far from sensible.”

“Fantasies?”

Mycroft had shivered. “Oh, my, yes. Once I knew it was possible.” He ducked his head and refused to look at Lestrade. “It was like a flood. Like a hurricane. I didn’t seem to know what to do with it. If you hadn’t invited me to that evening, I’m not sure what I would have done…”

It had taken an hour of patient probing to get the confession…and Lestrade had not been sure there was more to it than that. Mycroft admitting a fantasy, and letting it go…

“it’s hot,” he’d told Mycroft, a bit shaken at the thought of being wanted so deeply. “It really is a hot fantasy.”

“Oh, very.” Mycroft was all calm, cool control again, now he’d admitted it. “It kept me awake quite a number of nights. I’d think about how easy it would be to break in and be there, waiting for you. What you’d think. What you’d do. I always imagined it without sound, without words—I couldn’t imagine what we’d say.”

“Hot,” Lestrade said, a bit hoarse at the thought of it all. “Very, very hot…”

“A shame the flat won’t be yours much longer,” Mycroft had said, and said no more.

oOo

Mycroft’s eyes were bright in the light from the windows—street lights, the glimmer of neon here and there. He shivered under Lestrade’s caress, and gasped when his lover found his cock, hard and waiting already. He moaned and pushed into the exploring palm, into the curve of fingers tracing over him.

Lestrade smiled in the dark, then continued to explore, frowning as he tried to pin down exact observations. He was a detective, and while he worked differently to the way Sherlock and Mycroft worked, he was still a man who focused on detail and pattern, on subtle and accurate observations of fact.

The skin of Mycroft’s cock was like chamois—smooth with the faintest nap of suede. It was not quite damp, but nested between his thighs it wasn’t dry, either. There was a faint, tender humidity that rose up, enfolding Lestrade’s exploring fingers. The skin slipped over harder tissue beneath. Mycroft was firm, filled out, solid with his own longing before Lestrade had ever turned back the blanket. When Letsrade found his foreskin and eased it back and forth, Mycroft moaned.

They didn’t need words. What wasn’t inherent in the situation was informed by months together, and by years of mutual association. Lestrade had understood the implications of the fantasy from the first, when Mycroft had admitted it, blushing but aroused.

His lover, naked, driven by longing to sneak into his flat, strip, and wait to be found and taken. His lover, humbling himself out of love and desire. His lover, giving himself in that terrifying, complete, innocent totality that shook Lestrade every time he realized it was there.

This—Mycroft had imagined this in the months before Lestrade had considered inviting his old associate over for dinner and a few beers. Mycroft had wanted him while Lestrade was barely beginning to realize the other man was more than a distant, wary cypher. Mycroft had dreamed of giving himself, like this, if only Lestrade would understand and claim him.

Now Lestrade touched, traced, stroked, set his lover shimmying in longing. He let his hands claim what Mycroft offered in naked vulnerability. Even when the other man gasped and curled on himself like a hedgehog, suddenly shy, Lestrade kept up his gentle touch, easing Mycroft out of his knot, teasing him into response. And, oh, God, Mycroft was responsive—such a hot, erotic bundle of sensuality and reserve, shyness and cold, rational understanding, experience and naïvete. He was a lonely man’s wet-dream, reacting to every touch, shaking with his own desire, complete in his commitment to the moment.

Lestrade eased Mycroft from the sofa and settled him on his knees, feeling Mycroft’s erection brush his own, hidden behind his trouser fly. He cupped Mycroft’s bum and nuzzled under the curve of his jaw, sighing as Mycroft flattened his palms against Lestrade’s shirt front, caressing but making no effort to open buttons or find skin.

Lestrade lipped and nipped, then suckled against the line of Mycroft’s trapezius, the topline of his shoulder as it rose up into his neck. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to set the skin alight. He chuckled as Mycroft gasped.

He knew his lover’s erotic zones. He knew the things that shook him. His fingers found the tight muscles at the base of his neck, the tight scalp at the back of his skull. He dug his fingers in hard—not so hard as to bruise, but hard enough to force ever-tense muscles to let go and uncoil.

“Ahh…” The sound was one part pain to three or four parts pleasure. Then, “Ahhhh,” all pleasure as Lestrade shifted to softer kneading, working the tension from Mycroft’s scalp—up and up, over the top, then down to his temples. Mycroft leaned his face against Lestrade’s, brow to brow, nose to nose, panting as much in relief as in desire. “Ahh….”

Lestrade turned his face up, kissed his way over the arch of his lover’s cheekbones, over the flare of his lover’s brows. Down, then, until he could claim Mycroft’s lips. He held his skull cupped in both hands, firm and possessive.

His lover.

His own.

He wasn’t surprised when Mycroft shuddered with it, giving himself, panting into Lestrade’s mouth.

“God. I dreamed of this…”

Lestrade only smiled, knowing Mycroft could feel the reaction and understand. He rolled his body against Mycroft’s, and moaned softly when Mycroft wrapped him in a tight embrace, pulling them close together, providing a bit of leverage that let Lestrade press closer, rub up some friction.

Mycroft pulsed his hips, rubbing bare skin against wool-blend work trousers. He grunted and shoved, then gasped as he found the friction he longed for.

Lestrade felt the erotic madness—fully dressed, in control, in possession of the most powerful man in the nation, who writhed naked against him in longing. Who gave himself entirely. Whose very presence was a silent plea to be taken…whose every move begged for Lestrade to claim what was his already.

God, yes. A lonely man’s wet-dream. If he’d only known what Mycroft had been wanting all those months…

Fuck…

He reached down and fumbled his fly, only to find Mycroft’s fingers racing down, pushing past his own, slipping in past wool and zipper, past the reinforced edge of his Y-fronts, carefully extracting both cock and balls, easing them through the gates of pants and trousers, caressing and cradling and teasing…

“Uh.” The grunt was forced out of him. “Slow down,” he gasped, unable to keep silent. “Going to trip me off before we get any further.”

Mycroft whined his disappointment, then fumbled back, hands groping in the cushions of the sofa. He came back with a tube of lubricant he pressed into Lestrade’s hands. “Whatever you want,” he whispered. “Yours.”

Lestrade grinned to himself. Mycroft would accept whatever Lestrade chose—but he knew perfectly well he’d already told Lestrade what he’d imagined.

Lestrade slipped the other man down his knees, turning him even as he did. Mycroft, with a sigh half satisfaction, half anticipatory longing, allowed himself to be shifted until he was bent over the sofa, kneeling. He gasped and shuddered as Lestrade eased a line of lubricant between his cheeks and over his butt hole. He moaned outright as that was followed with a slow, lazy caress that circled and stroked and teased. Lestrade reached his other hand around, finding Mycroft’s cock and touching. It took little effort to bring Mycroft to squirming need.

He slipped a finger into his lover, slow and easy, pausing when sphincter muscles clamped, easing forward again when they relaxed. He pulsed in and out, and was rewarded with a matching rock and retreat. Another night he’d ask if Mycroft wanted it, just to hear him moan and agree. Tonight, though, it was a given—understood by both of them. This wasn’t a fantasy of Lestrade seducing an innocent, surprised Mycroft. They’d done that—and would do it again and again in glorious play. This, though, was innocent Mycroft seducing Lestrade—throwing himself at Lestrade’s head, invading his very flat, offering himself completely, willing from the first to the last. This was Mycroft’s fantasy from the days of his longing… To offer completely—and be taken. Completely.

A second finger joined the first. Mycroft was whimpering—not in pain, but in desire and anticipation. He rode between Lestrade’s hands, front and back, gasping and rocking and whining with excitement.

A third finger was added. Lestrade himself was hard as an iron bar, dripping with pre-come, ready and beyond ready. The only reason he held off was to prolong the pleasure of the game for both of them.

When he was sure Mycroft could stand little more, he shifted them once again, until he knelt between Mycroft’s knees. He reached forward, bringing Mycroft’s hands up to the very back edge of the sofa cushions, wrapping his fingers around that edge. “Hold on,” he whispered. “Hold tight.” He felt Mycroft’s fingers curl and grip. He eased back down and settled one hand high on Mycroft’s hip. With the other he guided himself, lining his cock up for a single clean thrust. When he was sure he was aligned, he drove in, hard.

Mycroft wailed with it—pleasure with just a trace of pain, just as he’d described the fantasy. Lestrade waited while his lover’s body adjusted and the seasoning of pain was gone. Then he drew back, slowly, and surged forward, setting up a pace, driving and driving, like a steam engine gathering speed and force.

Mycroft pushed back as hard, both men mad with the hunger and wildness of it. The sofa slipped under their roaring efforts, and they inched and twisted to follow, unable to lose the support it offered.

Bare skin pressed against wool and cotton. Lestrade’s overcoat tented over them both, like a flasher in the park hiding nakedness under flapping coat panels. The contrast was driving Lestrade crazy—he knew his lover well enough to understand why and how it had been Mycroft’s fantasy. He had not expected it to be his own. He felt in command, in possession. He felt omnipotent and invulnerable. He pinned his naked lover beneath him, hands doing what they wanted, cock owning what was his.

“Huh-uh-uh. Oh, God…”

“More…”

“Uh…uh…”

Lestrade had been tugging, teasing, caressing Mycroft’s cock, but as they crested he had to let go, grab his lover’s hips, cling tight for fear of losing his alignment in the thrash and frenzy as they climbed up and up the hill to the peak.

“Oh, yeah, oh, yeah, come on, love, come on…” Words had been lost to him before. They came back now, a ritual chant, verbal percussion, sexual bebop. “That’s it, you can, you…you can…that’s right, ohmygod… I’m, I’m, I’m…Oh, God…”

“Now,” his lover crooned. “Harder. Harder. Come on, you sodding bastard, come on…”

Ready, Lestrade reached forward again to bring his lover with him.

“OH!”

They were both gone—both broken, both shouting, both crazy with it.

Lestrade clung to the crest as long as he could, pushing to extend it, hold on, keep on driving, in and in. Mycroft had come in his hand, and the sticky slip and gum of it oozed between his fingers as the two men thrust and thrust, as long as they could hold on. Lestrade was jetting in surges—he’d finish and think he was coming down when another would roar down the line, until he was sure his balls were empty and sucked dry.

And then it was done, and they both leaned, heavy, only the sofa holding them up.

Mycroft, beneath Lestrade, whimpered.

“You all right, love?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper—a whisper with a trace of tears. “Yes…it was perfect.”

Lestrade nodded, his head pressed to Mycroft’s naked back. “Yeah? That what you wanted, love?”

“Oh, God…” Mycroft’s voice broke. “Oh…”

Lestade petted him with his dry hand. “Good,” he husked. He wrapped both arms around Mycroft, then, and rocked them both. “You were amazing.” He meant it—but he said it because he knew his lover needed it—needed to hear it. “Wonderful. So sexy.”

Mycroft hummed acknowledgement. “You, too. Just what I hoped for all those months.”

Lestrade grinned, knowing he’d have bollixed it up if Mycroft had ever actually surprised him like that in reality, before they’d worked it out their own placid, sensible way. He’d have panicked. But now he was Mycroft’s lover, and he’d been in the know about the fantasy. He’d been able to play into it…and was glad he had.

“It was something else,” he admitted. “Hell of a turn on. Maybe we can try it again sometime.”

“You’re giving up this flat…”

“So?” He chuckled. “I can see adapting it to your place. Bet you can adjust the fantasy if you set your mind to it.”

Mycroft made a small noise of disagreement that changed to intrigued possibility even as he protested. By the end of the note it was clear he was already making necessary revisions.

Lestrade chuckled. “So—not a lost cause, then?”

Mycroft sniffed. “Only because I’m a genius—and you love me.”

“Of course.”

“You…really did like it?”

“Loved it.”

“You don’t mind me surprising you?”

“Just the right amount of surprise. It’s not like I wasn’t cued in. And there’s only so much time to use the flat, after all.” He paused and added, “And it was a bit of a rush coming in and finding you, waiting, so sweet and shy and willing.”

“I’m nothing of the sort.”

“Mmmm. Not shy?”

Mycroft twitched and sighed reluctant confession.

“Not willing?”

That raised a squall of offended protest. Lestrade laughed.

“Well—I know you’ll say you aren’t sweet. But, oh, love, you were. All big eyes and longing…”

 

It was an hour or more before they managed to get up and clean up. They settled in Lestrade’s old bed, under the last of the linens still unpacked. They slept together, skin to skin, the fantasy done for the night. But the scene resonated long after it was done, and Lestrade held tight that night, arms around his lover, holding tight to what he’d been given…and Mycroft sighed and clung to Lestrade’s hands, afraid even in sleep of losing what he’d won.


End file.
